


Bluestocking Girl

by Redrikki



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: 5 Things, Character Study, F/M, Family Drama, Literary References & Allusions, Middle child syndrome, Sibling Rivalry, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:35:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/pseuds/Redrikki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four books which didn’t change Edith’s life and one letter to the editor which did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bluestocking Girl

**_Five Children and It_ by E. Nesbit (1900)**

Edith crouched under her bush and watched as Patrick prowled the garden. She wondered what would happen if he never found her. She’d win the game, obviously, but what then? Patrick would grow increasingly frustrated with his searching, while Mary would get bored and wander off. Around teatime, Fraulein Hilda would notice Edith was missing and be in tears by the time their usual after tea visit with Mama rolled around. Mama would be frantic the minute she heard and would turn out the whole house, servants, grooms, gardeners, even the hounds, to search the grounds and fields for her. They’d be ever so relieved when they found her. It would be like in _Five Children and It_ when they tried to wish Baby Lamb away and ended up realizing just how much they missed him.

Edith smiled at her fantasy of frantic hugs and her mother’s undivided attention as she slipped out from under the bush. After a few moments consideration, she headed for the stables and made herself a nest in a hay loft. She drifted off as the afternoon wore on, straining to hear the sound of her name being called and the baying of hounds.

She awoke just after dusk feeling positively starved. Edith listened for the sound of the search, but heard only the usual sounds of horses. They must think she was further afield, she supposed, and climbed down from the loft. “It’s all right,” she called. “Here I am.”

A few of the horses snorted in surprise at the noise, but no one else seemed to have noticed her announcement. Where was everyone? She rushed out of the stable into the paddock. “It’s me, Edith,” she shouted. “I’m here, safe and sound.” The paddock was empty. It was as though all the grooms had gone home, just as they would on any normal evening. 

After a few minutes looking around for someone to find her, Edith gave up and headed back to the house only to find the door locked. Locked! Edith had the sudden, frightful thought that she’d been asleep for years and everyone had forgotten all about her. She pounded at the door and was positively relieved to see Carson scowling down at her. 

“Lady Edith,” he exclaimed, “Where have you been?”

“Edith!” Mama called, rushing out of the north library. Edith braced for the hug that was sure to come but it never did. “Where have you been?” Mama scolded instead. “We’ve been worried sick. And you’re filthy.”

Edith pulled off a bit of hay clinging to her skirt feeling foolish and grubby. Mama looked as perfectly turned out as always in a spotless dress without a hair out of place. She didn’t look at all like someone who had been combing the fields or fighting gypsies for her missing child. Edith had been gone for hours and Mama had probably spent the afternoon answering her letters and embroidering just like she always did.

“Well?” said Mama, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Edith’s lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. “Why didn’t you look for me?” She cried. “You were supposed to come look for me.” Mama looked shocked as though the idea had never occurred to her. It was more than Edith could bear. “You would have looked if I were Sybil.” 

Mama’s face turned hard. “That’s quite enough, young lady,” she said angrily. “You’ve been very naughty. You will apologize right now and then go to bed without any super.”

“I’m sorry,” Edith sobbed. “I’m sorry.” And she was. She should have known better than to wish her mother would just pay attention to her. Wishes always went wrong in stories. . 

 

**_Three Vassar Girls Abroad_ by Elizabeth Williams Champney (1883)**

“I want to go to university,” Edith announced over dinner. Across the table, Carson nearly spilled the wine he was pouring for Granny, his face a mask of horror. Everyone was staring and, for once, she had the undivided attention of her family. 

Papa choked and sputtered on his drink. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want to attend a women’s college,” Edith clarified. She surveyed the blank expressions ringing the table. “I don’t know why you’re all so surprised. It’s not as though I’ve never mentioned it before.” 

“Yes,” Mama agreed, “When you were thirteen.”

Edith had devoured the _Three Vassar Girls_ series that year and been utterly enchanted. She longed for the company of like-minded women and the intellectual stimulation of conversation with people who read more than fashion magazines. Most of all, Edith yearned to escape the crushing tedium of social calls and embroidery. At thirteen, she had written Vassar’s Dean of Students and laid out her plans to her parents. They had said they would discuss it later. She was nearly eighteen; it was time to discuss it now.

“I don’t see why you should want to go at all,” Mary said as she served herself several slices of beef. “Bad enough you’re such a bluestocking. If you get any more educated no man will have you.” Edith’s hand clenched around her knife. She couldn’t wait to be away from Mary’s smug face.

“Mary!” Exclaimed Sybil sounding as shocked and disapproving as only she could. “I think it’s a perfectly smashing idea,” she added with a smile.

Granny frowned in disapproval. “Don’t be ridiculous. Women of our sort do not attend _college_.”

“They do in America,” Edith pointed out. In America, women had been attending college for decades. 

“My dear,” Granny said, “Your mother to the contrary not withstanding, you are not American.”

Mama pursed her lips at the jab, but turned her attention back to Edith. “Be that as it may, we have to think about your future,” she said gently. Clearly she agreed with Mary about her marriage prospects. 

“So am I!” Maybe she would be able to find a husband away from Mary’s shadow. Maybe she would become a famous authoress and not need a man to support her at all.

“I’m sorry, but it’s just not done,” Papa finally weighted in. “You’re not going and that’s my final word on the matter.”

So that was it then. Edith threw down her silverware with a clatter and fled from the room. All her dreams were dead and she needed to mourn in private.

 

**_20th Century Hand-Book of Etiquette or Key to Social and Business Success_ by Maud C. Cook (1899)**

Edith let the sound of the orchestra wash over her as she followed Aunt Rosamund into the ballroom. This wasn’t the servants’ ball at home or a ghillie ball at Duneagle or a bit of dancing a country house. This was a real Mayfair ball, Edith’s first, during her first London season. It seemed her whole life had been leading up to this. Every etiquette book, every interminable hour spent at the dressmakers and every dance lesson, even the stolen moments waltzing with Thomas the footman earlier this morning, had all led her here. If she played her cards right tonight they might lead her even further to the start of her life as someone’s wife, as someone’s mother.

They drifted towards a convenient spot along the wall as Edith drank in the sights. She recognized several of the young women who had been presented along side her and a few of the men as well. “Ah, here we are,” Aunt Rosamund said, drawing Edith’s attention to the young man bearing down on them. He was reasonably handsome with honey-blond curls and a just slightly over-long nose.

“Lord Erskin,” Aunt Rosamund greeted him, holding out her hand to be kissed. He obliged her, bending over to brush her hand with his lips before shooting a rather pointed look at Edith. “Edith, may I present Lord Erskin Butterfield? Lord Erskin, my niece, Lady Edith Crawley.” 

They mouthed all the usual pleasantries before getting down to brass tacks. “Lady Edith,” Lord Erskin asked, “May I have the honor of this next dance?”

“I should be delighted,” Edith agreed, allowing him to lead her to the floor. They moved well together and their small talk flowed easily between them. 

“I say, what’s that about?” Erskin exclaimed abruptly. He turned them round so Edith could get an a good view of the hubbub over his shoulder. There, in the doorway, stood Mary. She was arm in arm with Patrick, but already surrounded by a pack of young men, crowded around her skits like puppies begging for treats. “Do you know her?”

Edith grimaced. “Rather well actually.”

Erskin spun them back around so as to grant himself a clearer view of Mary and her admirers. “I suppose she must be a dreadful tease to attract a mob like that.” 

Edith hesitated. Every etiquette book said that nothing could lower a girl in a man’s estimation quite so quickly as speaking ill of another woman. She supposed it went double when the other woman in question was one’s sister. “She’s reputed to be something of a wit,” she offered before gently steering the conversation back into safer waters.

He escorted her back to Aunt Rosamund at the conclusion of the dance, his hand lingering on her hip for just a moment more than entirely proper. “Might I have the pleasure of another dance later this evening?” Erskin asked.

Edith flushed with delight. “Of course,” she said, offering him her dance card. He penciled himself in for the third dance after the dinner and left her smiling.

By the time the appointed hour rolled around, Edith was quite looking forward to the second go around. She waited, but he still hadn’t come for her by the time the music started. It took her a moment to spot why, but then she saw him, already dancing with Mary and laughing at something she’d said. Edith clenched her teeth and struggled to rein in her temper. Etiquette dictated that she be gracious when he realized his error. 

 

**_Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Brontë (1847)**

Edith threw herself down upon the bed, heedless of the damage to her gown. The bloody thing could burn for all she cared, and take her with it. Today was supposed to be her moment of triumph, her moment to stand before the world in defiance of expectations and her father’s wishes and shout, “Reader, I married him.” Instead Sir Anthony had abandoned her at the altar to humiliation and heartbreak. She still loved him, and suspected she always would, but Edith would never forgive him. 

The bedroom door opened behind her and Edith clutched the duvet and temper with both hands. “Leave me alone,” she cried. She didn’t care who it was. No one could comfort her.

“Oh, Edith!” Sybil sighed, sitting down beside her. Leave it to her to do what she wanted regardless of what she was told. Only Sybil could run off to marry an Irish chauffeur and damn the consequences. Only Sybil could get her happy ending without Papa’s approval. She had everything Edith wanted and Edith could barely stand to look at her now. 

“Sybil,” Edith said, pulling herself up and as together as she could given the circumstances. “Sybil, please.” She couldn’t have said if she was begging her sister to leave or to somehow make it better.

Sybil took Edith in her arms. The swell of her pregnancy pressed up against Edith as she breathed in the sent of her sister’s hair in a long, stuttering gasp thick with tears and snot. She was never going to have that. She was never going to be a mother. Anthony had taken her children from her when he fled. “Why did he do that?” she sobbed. “Why did he do that to me?”

“Because he is a fool,” Sybil said, rubbing Edith’s back in wide, soothing circles . “A selfish, prideful fool. Any man would have to be to leave you.”

Edith gave a small, humorless laugh that sounded perilously close to a sob. The men she loved always left her. Before he disappeared, Patrick had written that it was just too difficult. It was just too difficult, being loved by her, and that was why he had to get away. Anthony had said he couldn’t as he ran from the church. Were they both fools? It seemed more likely to think that she was the foolish one.

Edith laid her head in her sister’s lap. If she closed her eyes she imagined she could hear her niece or nephew’s heart. Edith had once overheard her parents talking about how she would be the one to look after them in their old age. She had been born to be a spinster and this baby’s maiden aunt. Everything else was just wishful thinking. 

Edith was no Jane Eyre and Anthony Strallen wasn’t her Mr. Rochester to rescue and wed. There would never be a “reader, I married him” moment for her. Tonight Edith would cry about it. Tomorrow she’d wake up dry eyed and embrace her lonely destiny. 

 

**“Earl’s Daughter Speaks Out for Women’s Rights” in _The London Times_ by Lady Edith Crawley (August 20, 1920)**

Michael Gregson considered the paper which lay across his before taking it up again to reread Lady Edith Crawley’s letter to the editor for the third time since he had first discovered it at breakfast. 

_On the other side of the Atlantic,_ it read, _the State of Tennessee has ratified the 19th Constitutional Amendment, thereby granting all American women the right to vote. Here in England, women have been voting since 1918, but only some women. While all English men over 21 may vote, only women property owners over 30 may do so. Why are younger women like myself unworthy of this right? During the war, did we not work in factories, drive tractors and nurse the wounded? Now that the war is over, the government would prefer to see us shut back in our homes rather than out in the world and making decisions about our own lives. It is too late for that though. We will not be made invisible. We are modern women who have seen and done too much to be content with the distant promise of a vote when we turn 30. All our American sisters have the vote and so should we._

It was not an especially original argument, but it was certainly a bold one for an earl’s daughter to make, especially in such a public manner. Lady Edith Crawley was a woman in possession of both opinions and a clear desire to express them. More over, she was a lady, which lent her words a certain force and notoriety. It was a truth universally acknowledged that such a young woman must be in want of her very own column, whether she knew it or not. 

Michael smiled to himself. “Jane,” he called to his secretary, “I need you type a letter.” He’d have Lady Edith writing for _The Sketch_ before the summer was out. He had a good feeling about her.


End file.
